


Lookups

by anactoriatalksback



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, M/M, Master/Pet, Mostly for his abuse of Excel, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Shame Ned Little, The Terror Bingo 2020, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoriatalksback/pseuds/anactoriatalksback
Summary: He could have sworn – Ned could have sworn – that a rising executive at a highly successful transport and logistics multinational would be able to afford the services of a mid-range professional to come on his face and tell him he was a disgusting maggot, and still leave some over for a steady balanced investment in a midcap mutual fund, but apparently not.In which Ned Little tries and fails to balance his chequebook, until he gets an assist from Thomas Jopson.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 32
Kudos: 64
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	Lookups

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fill for the 'Pet Play' square of my Terror Bingo card.

Ned Little looks over his shoulder once before the cursor hovers over the innocuous-looking spreadsheet rejoicing in the filename of ‘Budgetary_Houshold_EL_07042019_v2.1.xlx’. He glances over his shoulder again, licks his lips once, and then clicks.

There is a long grinding whirring before the spreadsheet opens reluctantly. Ned will admit he’s not sure how or why the spreadsheet got to be 350 MB, but it has, and after two months of trying to work on his own personal laptop and waiting five minutes for the spreadsheet to complete a single calculation and crash his beleaguered machine about ten times, he’s taken the drastic step of smuggling the beast onto his work machine. He’s not planning to go home tonight anyway: his boss has asked him to sift through all the files and the emails relating to the Erebus Project. Ned agreed, or at least wasn’t really given the chance to protest, Charles des Voeux gave him a delighted smile, and the last time Ned checked, there were 2,000 unread messages in his inbox and steadily climbing. And now between James Fitzjames’s congenital inability to get to the point without a confessional preamble that would put a culinary blog to shame, and Dundy’s incomprehensible Posh Boy blether, Ned has a headache that’s started at the soles of his feet and he knows he’s missed the last tube home. Might as well get some admin done while he’s here.

The spreadsheet has an ‘Incoming’ tab, an ‘Outgoings’ tab, ‘Assumptions’, and ‘Lookups’. Each tab is marked with a perhaps unnecessarily threatening neon shade of pink, yellow, green and blue respectively. It started out as a fairly straightforward affair. One tab, four columns. It ran fairly smoothly and did the job. Then Ned was made to take an Excel training course and he realised that Improvements Could Be Made. Ever since then the spreadsheet has acquired intricate nested functions and eye-watering references, branching out and interweaving like a large, unpleasant, deeply incestuous family.

Currently, Ned’s not touching the ‘Incomings’ tab. He’s inputted his salary and he likes to let Crozier surprise him with bonuses[1]. It’s ‘Outgoings’ that concern him[2]. Reasonable enough, at first glance: Taxes, Rent, Utilities, Food, Travel, Contingencies and Recreation. All fairly straightforward. But then Ned started thinking about the house he might want to buy, and the deposit he’d need to scrounge up for it, and how house prices might change in the neighbourhoods he was interested in, and now _that’s_ gone into the ‘lookups’ tab, along with projected interest rates, and inflation, and then he figured he’d need to figure out how his expenses might shape up as well, so he’s needed to make some assumptions about _those_[3], and he doesn’t know what went wrong but now his expenses are ballooning with every time he opens the spreadsheet and it doesn’t look like he’ll make it to the end of the month, let alone save up enough for even one brick in the shittiest outhouse of the shittiest basement flat in the shittiest dosshouse this side of the Suez.

And he’s pretty sure that can’t be right, but it’s hard to figure out what’s wrong when the spreadsheet makes his computer die five times every time he so much as hits ‘save’. And God knows it’s not the first time Ned’s cried over a spreadsheet, and God knows it won’t be the last, but still.

He thinks – he thinks – the problem is ‘Recreation’. The problem, Ned reflects gloomily, is always ‘Recreation’. He doesn’t think it’s cinema tickets, or tickets to the Royal Maritime Museum or the Greenwich Observatory. He’s checked, and checked, and checked again, and they seem to be holding steady at reasonable levels.

No, it’s the… other stuff.

He can’t work it out. He ought to be able to get ‘Fac.’ in budget, there’s no real reason not to, and equally there’s no real reason for ‘VH’ or ‘PP’ to be sitting at a turgid waterlogged 20 per cent – each – of his entire monthly take-home.

He could have sworn – Ned could have sworn – that a rising executive at a highly successful transport and logistics multinational would be able to afford the services of a mid-range professional to come on his face and tell him he was a disgusting maggot, and still leave some over for a steady balanced investment in a midcap mutual fund, but apparently not.

Maybe if mid-priced is out of his range, he might try a no-frills option…?

But no, as anyone who’s flown Ryanair knows, there’s no such thing as a cheap flight. The instant – the instant – Ned thinks of adding an extra – just one – he’ll wish he’d booked a sodding Concorde ticket to Lima[4].

No, no-frills won’t help. Ned’s not after a rub-and-tug, he needs at least some specialisation, and that doesn’t come cheap.

Well, I mean, clearly not.

But there must be – I mean, there had to be a time when Ned could …?

Not that he has, not in a while. Well, he hasn’t had _time_. And back when he was starting out he could only ever afford one or the other, stood to reason. But he did think that the promotion and the salary bump might mean…

Well, I mean, he saved up last year’s Christmas bonus and everything. If a man can’t treat himself to a spunk and maybe a cheeky slap on Christmas – well, when can he?

Never, apparently.

There’s a ping and a pop-up email notification in the corner of his screen. Ned stares at the spreadsheet and clicks over to his ‘lookups’ tab. It seems to be working. He opens up the formula. The reference seems to be working too. But then _why_ –

He can feel the tears start at the corner of his eyes. He’s startled awake more often than he can count rehearsing the index match formulae that go into this spreadsheet, and cried himself to sleep clutching the worryingly explicit Princess Twilight Sparkle bodypillow his roommate Sol got him and that he’s never thrown away because even if the pillow won’t tell him he’s a disappointment and a failure, apparently nobody else will either[5].

Ned sniffs and shuts his eyes, willing the error to reveal itself the next time he opens them.

The cursor’s still blinking obstinately just exactly where he left it.

‘You’re here late, Mr Little.’

Ned starts so violently he nearly bites clean through his tongue. ‘FFFngk!’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Little,’ says Thomas Jopson, his voice gentle and a long white hand comfortingly at Ned’s elbow.

Ah, Thomas Jopson. Francis Crozier’s PA, whom Ned knows for a fact Crozier has been trying to get to join the management training programme and which Jopson’s evading for reasons Ned can’t quite grasp. Surely Jopson knows – he has to know – that with a tailwind and the right support he’d be running the company, and quite possibly the entire world. He’s seen Jopson wangle conference arrangements, sort out shipping snafus across air, road, rail and sea choke-points simultaneously, steer Franklin as far away from Crozier as physically possible[6], and remember everyone’s coffee orders perfectly. In the same afternoon.

And look …

Well…

And look like …

Well…

Thomas Jopson is standing at a perfectly appropriate and respectful distance, hand now removed from Ned’s elbow[7]. He’s wearing a nice dark suit with a nice crisp white oxford, gleaming in the half-light, and his dark hair has a knife-sharp side-part.

His head is slightly tilted and his eyes are looking at Ned. Blue eyes, clear as the surface of a lake in summer.

‘Um,’ says Ned. ‘Hi, Tho – Jop – Hi.’

‘Thomas is fine, Mr Little,’ says Jopson, with a gentle smile.

‘Call me Ned,’ says Ned. ‘Or Edward at least.’

Jopson – Thomas – doesn’t reply, and the silence is so tactful Ned wants to crawl under his desk until Jop- _Thomas_ – leaves. ‘You’re working late, Mr Little.’

Ned’s eyes dart to the screen, where the cursor is blinking threateningly over ‘Fac.’ ‘Er - ’

‘The _Erebus_ files, right?’ Thomas’s face is all polite concern.

Ned looks at the spreadsheet again and then down at his desk. ‘Yes,’ he says, so softly he can barely hear himself. Thomas bends to hear him. He smells of something fresh and comforting and lovely that Ned cannot identify.

‘I see,’ says Thomas, eyes still on Ned. ‘Anything I can help with, at all?’

Ned should say no. It’s late. He should let Thomas be on his way, and return to his Sexual Humiliation and Also Regular Humiliation Budgeting.’

‘.. ‘s fine,’ says Ned.

‘Yes?’ says Thomas.

Reluctantly, Ned nods.

And then – because of course – the grinding whirr from the spreadsheet abruptly cuts out and the screen goes blank.

‘ _Shit_.’

The next few minutes are a whirl of curses and rebooting and Ned forgets that Thomas is even there until a voice at his elbow says softly ‘I’d really like to help, Mr Little.’

‘Um,’ says Ned, glaring at the spreadsheet (open in ‘Read-Only’ mode) and clicking ‘Save As’. Jesus, just …‘Budgetary_Houshold_EL_07042019_2348_v2.1.xlx’, _God_.

‘That’s quite a spreadsheet,’ says Thomas.

Ned blushes, and grins, and then frowns, and blushes again. ‘It – er - ’

‘You took that Excel training course, didn’t you,’ says Thomas. ‘It shows.’

Ned blushes again, then swears as The Sodding Spreadsheet tells him he has an uncorrected circular reference, which, what.

‘May I see?’ says Thomas, ‘I really think I might learn something.’

‘Um,’ says Ned, and then thinks of another hour spent correcting this circular fucking reference – where the hell did _that_ come from? – and still – still – nowhere closer to finding out why in the name of bleeding Christ a facial and a scold apparently cost more than a mid-priced family sedan.

‘O – okay,’ he says, rolling his seat back so that Thomas can sit in front of the monitor. Thomas smiles again at him – Ned swallows – and sits down.

‘Right,’ he says after a minute or two, ‘I assume you don’t want this reference here?’

Ned squints at the formula and sighs. ‘No, I must … fuck, I must have been leaning on the keyboard or something?’

‘Of course,’ says Thomas, and clicks ‘save’. The inevitable whirring and grinding starts up.

‘It’s, uh,’ says Ned, ‘it’s, uh, big.’

‘It _is_ ,’ says Thomas, ‘I wonder … you’d know better, of course, but do we need it … to be … so big?’

Ned frowns. ‘I need it for - ’

‘It’s very impressive,’ says Thomas, ‘but maybe…’ his fingers (long, slim, capable) are dancing across the keyboard. Before Ned can protest, he’s saved another copy, opened up a macro, deleted half of Ned’s lookups, and before Ned can choke out a protest the thing’s half the size and there’s a discreet little button generating options (actual sets of options) for recreation that Ned can afford.

‘You just set your savings preferences here, Mr Little, and there you go.’

Ned is looking at Thomas’s serene, upturned, unearthly face with a slack jaw. All he can think of to say is ‘This isn’t for the _Erebus_ project.’

‘No,’ says Thomas. He doesn’t bother to look surprised.

‘It’s,’ says Ned, and swallows. ‘Personal.’

Thomas doesn’t say anything. Ned’s eyes skitter across to the screen and blenches. Thomas’s supernatural skills notwithstanding, there’s still the issue of the fucking eye-watering price of a slap and a spunk, which doesn’t seem to have –

‘That does seem quite a lot, yes,’ says Thomas, following Ned’s eyes. ‘For a facial.’

Ned recoils. Thomas puts out a reassuring hand and says ‘There’s no shame in it.’

Ned swallows. Thomas continues ‘There’s so much patriarchal nonsense about beauty and gender, Mr Little. You work hard, you deserve a spa day.’ Another gentle smile and a ‘Honestly, Mr Little, if anyone’s earned a little pampering, it’s you.’

Ned thinks of Thomas’s hands in the context of pampering and himself (Little, Edward) and licks his lips before he knows what he’s doing. He coughs and says ‘It, er. Seems to be… picking something up, that, uh. I don’t know, is making it - ’

Thomas is clicking over to the ‘lookups’ tab before Ned can stop him. And Ned wants quite badly to stop him, because the lookups tab is detailed about hourly rates and there’s not a spa on the list and …

‘I think I see the problem,’ says Thomas. ‘You’re picking up the wrong inflation numbers.’ He points to the screen. ‘It’s reading from Ukraine, not UK.’

Ned stares. ‘Right,’ he says, and watches before his eyes as Tom reruns the calculation and clicks his little button and worlds, entire vistas, of facials (multiple!) and hours worth of humiliation and pet play, Jesus, maybe he could go to the good place, that one place Sol shoved him into for his birthday three years ago and…

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Oh, Jesus, Thomas, Jesus _fuck_.’

Tears, again, in his eyes. Ned throws his head back and takes a deep breath to force them back.

‘I’m glad that was helpful,’ says Thomas’s soft voice. ‘This … ‘PP’… seems to mean a great deal to you.’

Ned opens his eyes slowly to look at Thomas, who is looking straight back at him. The glow from the monitor gives his eyes an eldritch gleam.

‘This still does seem,’ says Thomas softly, ‘an unusual way to charge for a facial.’

Ned stares at him. He finds he’s quite unable to speak.

Thomas rises and says, gently, as if he’s calming a skittish horse, ‘Mr Little, do you want to tell me what ‘VH’ means?’

And Ned finds he does. He really, really does. He moistens his lips once and says ‘V – verbal. Humiliation.’

Thomas smiles. ‘Good. And ‘PP’?’

‘Pet play,’ says Ned, watching Thomas.

‘Ah,’ says Thomas. ‘So, something like…’ And he sinks, gracefully, to the floor, arches his back and begins to crawl over to Ned.

‘No,’ says Ned. ‘I don’t – I’d be the - ’

Thomas looks up at him. ‘Oh,’ he says, and stands up. His eyes flick to Ned’s. ‘I see.’

His tone is distant. Disdainful. Ned feels his face begin to heat.

‘Well, go on then,’ says Thomas.

‘G – go on?’

Thomas snaps his fingers once. ‘Heel,’ he says.

Ned holds his breath. Thomas is all unconcern, a man who expects to be obeyed. But his eyes are watchful on Ned’s.

Slowly, Ned sinks to his knees. Thomas breathes out: just a little, a soft acknowledgement.

Ned shuffles over to Thomas. Ungainly, shaking, stiffening in his trousers. He bangs his knee once, painfully, on the leg of Thomas’s swivel chair. Dimly, he thinks he’ll feel it tomorrow. But for now? For now?

‘Head down,’ says Thomas, ‘And quiet.’

Ned nods, fervently.

‘What are you supposed to be?’ says Thomas. Distant again, a little impatient. ‘A cat? A dog? A puppy?’

Ned shivers. Long fingers are in his hair, pulling his head back. The voice says softly ‘You can speak.’

Ned says, ‘D – dog. I’m.’

‘Right,’ says Thomas. ‘Big, fuck-off job, at a big, fuck-off company, and what you want to do with your money is pay other people for them to pat you on the head and tell you you’re a good boy.’

Ned says ‘O – only if - ’

The hand in his hair tightens. ‘I didn’t say,’ says Thomas pleasantly, ‘that you could speak.’

Ned chokes. He nods, to show he understood and to feel the pull of those long fingers in his hair, and waits.

‘Christ,’ says Thomas, ‘look at you.’

Ned’s eyes flutter shut.

‘Look at the state of you.’

Ned can feel the heat under his skin, leached out by the cool elegant fingers still holding his hair. He’s hard, already, painfully and shamefully, but Christ have mercy, it’s been so long, so long since anything except Princess Twilight Sparkle even accidentally touched him there, and this, he can’t, how is this even –

‘What would they say,’ says Thomas, ‘the Erebus lads, if they could see you now?’

Oh, _God_.

‘Standing right there, watching you pitch a tent in your trousers at my feet? What would Dundy or des Voeux say? What would,’ Thomas’s voice drops, ‘what would Crozier say?’

A little cry escapes Ned’s lips.

‘Quiet, now,’ says Thomas. ‘For all you know, Crozier’s in his office.’

Ned gnaws at his lip. He’s trembling, sweat on his upper lip, and everything seems balanced on the slimmest, most treacherous edge.

‘He could come running out,’ the voice continues, ‘to see what’s going on, and what would he find? Ned Little, grovelling on the floor, begging like an animal. The sorriest, saddest rescue puppy in the world. Don’t want that, do we…’ he pauses, ‘…Ned?’

Ned pitches forward, heedless of the hand in his hair, buries his face in Thomas’s lap and comes. After a long, gauzy interval, he realises there’s a hand gently pushing back the hair from his damp forehead.

‘Good boy,’ says Thomas. ‘There’s a good boy.’

Ned sighs damply into Thomas’s trousers. He’s sticky, he realises, the cool air rushing in unpleasantly. Sticky, and clammy, and Thomas didn’t – oh God, Thomas didn’t –

He looks up at Thomas. Urgently, hands trembling over Thomas’s knee. Unsure if he’s allowed to speak, or touch, or offer – God, something, _anything_ , he wants –

‘You can speak,’ says Thomas. He smiles – a Thomas smile, gentle and kind.

‘Can I,’ says Ned, hand inching up Thomas’s thigh.

‘Oh,’ says Thomas, sounding a little startled. ‘Oh, no, Mr Little, that won’t be necessary.’

Ned flinches with his whole body. ‘Ned,’ he says, ‘you did, you called me – could you? Please?’

Thomas looks at him, head tilted to one side. He says ‘For recreation, Mr Little. I think you’ve been overpaying.’

Ned waits, and Thomas continues: ‘I think you’d better come to me for all that.’ He smiles. ‘We’ll have you saving up for that house in no time.’

Ned makes an inarticulate noise and sways forward. ‘Ned?’ he says, hands clutching Thomas’s thigh, ‘Will you call me Ned?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ says Thomas, ‘and next time, maybe you’d better call me sir.’

[1] It’s always a surprise; Ned’s never, not once, ended the year without believing he’s only kept on out of the kindness of Crozier’s heart. Every year he is honestly taken aback that he receives an end-of-year bonus at all, let alone one of any size.

Back

[2] It’s _always_ ‘Outgoings’ that concern him.

Back

[3] In the ‘Assumptions’ tab, of course.

Back

[4] Maybe he could even get someone to spunk on him there. The rates London’s sex workers are charging, might even work out cheaper.

Back

[5] Well, Ned hears it every time Francis Crozier opens his mouth, but on those occasions it’s subtext. And anyway Ned’s response to it is not remotely sexuala.

a Not yet, anyway.

Back

[6] Fitzjames was right next to Croziera, but honestly even Jopson couldn’t be expected to manage _everything_.

a As Crozier pointed out to Nedb.

b Repeatedlyc.

c At lengthd.

d With a detailed blow-by-blow account of the latest of Fitzjames’s apparently-interminable stories.

Back

[7] Ned feels the loss. Acutely.

Back

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first Joplittle! Be gentle with me, my doves.
> 
> I can be found on [tumblr](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsevidentvery) if you'd like to come yell with me there.
> 
> A shareable link for this fic can be found on [tumblr](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/post/637341122172256256/lookups) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsevidentvery/status/1337901248096374784?s=20), if you are so inclined.


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